


Relish the Moment

by 30PacketsofKetchup



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Arkham Asylum, Condiment King - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Rough Sex, Smut, The Scarecrow - Freeform, ketchup, pantry fuckin, so much ketchup, there was no Condiment King smut on the internet so I took it upon myself, why with Jonathan? why the fuck not?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 01:21:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16378703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/30PacketsofKetchup/pseuds/30PacketsofKetchup
Summary: What would it say about him if he hooked up with the Condiment King? Contrary to popular belief, he did at least in small part care about his reputation. And Mitchell's standing throughout Arkham was... Well, he was a joke. And his frankly unearned pride in himself and his millimeter long rap sheet made him even more of a joke.... But when Mitchell slipped him that Taco Bell sauce packet (likely smuggled into the asylum in a way he'd rather not lose sleep over) bearing the phrase "I'm up for it if you are," Jonathan let his boredom and his lust get the better of him. A moment of weakness, he'd later muse.A moment of weakness.





	Relish the Moment

**Author's Note:**

> I have no one to blame but myself

It wasn't that his new cellmate was unattractive. Quite the opposite really. The face of a man who belonged on stage, with his white smile and dimpled cheeks. (He was a former comedian, Jonathan had been told. And he had been quick to inform the newcomer that he had never seen and did not intend to become familiar with his work.) And even if he had been ugly, who was Jonathan to have any sort of opinion about a person's looks?

But it was the third rate villain's attitude that really gave Jonathan pause. He believed, or acted as though he believed, that he /belonged/ here in Arkham. Mitchell Mayo was mentally unwell, certainly. A cursory conversation with the man would clue one in to that fact. But Mitchell belonged in a real mental health facility, not this prison which poorly masqueraded as one. He was too... soft. Thwarted bank heists and bad puns were the worst of his offenses. He was a criminal lightweight, so to speak. He needed actual help. The kind the asylum, in its current form, simply did not offer.

Why in God's name the staff decided to pair him up with Jonathan Crane, noted murderer and psychological torturer, was anyone's guess. He half suspected they were hoping for an incident, fed up with the younger rogue's antics. And though they'd only been sharing a cell for a week or so, Jonathan was already badly tempted to give the guards exactly what they wanted. Mitchell was rarely quiet. He talked whether his blathering was being listened to or not. And he was cheery to a fault. Rose early and did his morning stretches every day, and beamed at Jon from the floor of their cramped space at the first sign of stirring in the psychologist. "Good morning, my friend!" he would greet him, perhaps unaware that Jonathan had not slept at all. "Mayo /relish/ this day!" Jonathan would answer with no more than a curt grunt, which somehow satisfied his gleeful company every time. 

The worst part about Mitchell, Jonathan had quickly realized, was that he only had about three or four actual puns in his arsenal. Which was to be expected, considering the culinary theme he had chosen for himself. And Jonathan had to endure them. Every day. Multiple times a day. It was enough to strangle him over. It was only the memory of that last stint in solitary confinement that stayed Jonathan's hands. 

Instead he spent his days as he always did when he found himself locked in this sham of a 'hospital.' He read his books, and discreetly worked on his formulas, and he kept to himself as much as possible. As tempting as it was to fiddle with the lesser villain's malleable little brain, Jonathan was behaving himself. For the most part. 

And so it came as a surprise when Mitchell, seemingly out of the blue, aired the proposition to Jonathan. And as taken aback as he was, it wasn't as if he hadn't thought about it. In passing. When the other man had bent across his cot to retrieve a pair of reading glasses. In the early mornings when he did his daily stretches, his striped cotton shirt lifting to reveal the flash of bare skin. Jonathan was a man after all. And Mitchell was a youthful, svelte-bodied little thing. Sorry to say, Jonathan had had relations with men who barely possessed a tenth of Mitchell's attractiveness. 

What would it say about him if he hooked up with the /Condiment King/? Contrary to popular belief, he did at least in small part care about his reputation. And Mitchell's standing throughout Arkham was... Well, he was a joke. And his frankly unearned pride in himself and his millimeter long rap sheet made him even more of a joke. 

But Jonathan had been in the asylum for months as it was, and the escape plan he'd been brewing in his head would take several more to complete. That wasn't even accounting for inevitable set-backs. Nothing ever went exactly according to plan. Not for Jonathan anyway. As a former therapist he knew that conflating boredom with lust could have devastating consequences. But when Mitchell slipped him that Taco Bell sauce packet (likely smuggled into the asylum in a way he'd rather not lose sleep over) bearing the phrase "I'm up for it if you are", Jonathan let his boredom and his lust get the better of him. A moment of weakness, he'd later muse. 

A moment of weakness. 

In Arkham, as Jonathan would assume was true in any facility of this nature, sex was not an easy feat to accomplish. This of course not being his first rodeo, he had informed Mitchell of the need for haste and discretion. They'd have to perfectly time their coupling between the guards' scheduled rounds and make as little noise as they could- something Jonathan worried his comedic cellmate might not be capable of. He spoke about it as if they were booking an appointment. (A "dick appointment," Harley would later so gleefully tell him it was called.) But Mitchell Mayo, whose tastes were as plain to see as the pickle hat he sported as a costume, had very different plans than Jonathan. 

"It needs to be in the kitchen," he told him, tone as nervous as it was matter-of-fact.

Jonathan made no effort to hide his eye-rolling in response. "The kitchen? Why in the hell...?" But he knew the answer. And it was enough of an anomaly to stir his psychiatric and personal interest. "Fine. That's much more difficult but we'll manage. Are you ever assigned cooking duty?"

Mitchell bit his lip, embarrassed as he looked to the floor with a shrug. "I'm not allowed..."

Oh but of course he wasn't. And Jonathan hadn't been for a long time either until recently. Good behavior had its perks. Occasionally. And so the next afternoon, following lunch, Jonathan managed to hide himself in the pantry, where he waited annoyed but with bated breath for his chosen partner to arrive. 

Mitchell nearly didn't make it. It was only by inciting a fight between two other inmates in the halls -it was easy, really; all he had to do was inform Harvey Dent that Basil Karlo had said that the scars on his face looked like Beggin' Strips- that he was able to slip away from the guards' watch and book it to the asylum pantry. Though a part of him did want to hang back and listen to the creative insults that filled the air as fists -and whatever Clayface was made of- flew. 

Jonathan lifted his eyes and greeted Mitchell with an impatient scowl when the door to the pantry was opened. "What took you?" he asked with indifference, making no move to sit up from his place reclining atop a pile of flour sacks. 

But Mitchell was already on the hunt, running his thumb over the cheap metal shelving that held the asylum's store of canned goods and other non-perishables. "I came as fast I could," he answered after a distracted delay. His brow furrowed as he squatted and checked the lower shelves for Jonathan could only guess what. 

He didn't have to guess long, however, because just then Mitchell straightened his back with a triumphant "Aha!" and presented him with two plastic bottles. One was ketchup, the other mustard. "Pick your poison," the enigmatic and yet all too predictable wannabe rogue instructed. 

Jonathan's first instinct, being a man of such moral fiber as he was, was to slap both bottles out of Mitchell's hands. To call him a fool. To punish him for wasting his time and having the audacity to bring his laughable little kink into this. But Jonathan had been sporting a not-so-well hidden erection under his thin, hospital-issued trousers for the last hour at least. He wasn't going to let a silly thing like condiments get in the way of ending his embarrassingly long dry spell. He sighed, adjusting his weight and sitting up a bit to look over the bottles more carefully. "Let's see... ah.. I prefer ketchup, I suppose. If these are my only options." 

Mitchell was staring down at him with a punchably chipper grin. It faltered only slightly when he replied, looking back at the shelf and setting the scorned mustard bottle back where it came from. "I think this is all they have, yeah." A poor selection in a depressing setting. But no matter. He was a man of the stage. He'd improvise. Mitchell turned back to Jonathan and tilted his head as a playful dog might. "So... do you want to make out?"

Several minutes of awkward kissing and groping hands found Mitchell seated on Jonathan's lap, still on top of the flour bags. They were a bit cramped in the small space they had between shelving units and stacks of cardboard, but with the way his grouchy old partner tilted his hips as they kissed, dragging his trapped cock along the crack of Mitchell's ass as a teasing preview of what was to come, he could hardly care. 

The sounding pop of the ketchup bottle opening behind his head made Jonathan's eyes flutter open in surprise. They both pulled away from their kiss at the same time- Jonathan to cast a curious glance at the man on his lap, and Mitchell to curse under his breath. 

"Fucking thing has the seal on it still. Hold up, lemme peel it off." He dismounted his horrific steed and sat back on his heels, fumbling with gritted teeth at the plastic tab that was /meant/ to aid in removing the protective seal on the lip of the bottle. 

Jonathan rolled his eyes and muttered his irritation, lying back on the flour sacks and crossing his arms in impatience. "Is the ketchup really necessary?" 

The absolute seriousness in the glare Mitchell shot him then was palpable. "Yes, Jonathan. It /is/." 

Jonathan so wished he'd brought a notepad along. He could write a goddamn case study about this boy. Another sigh. "Having trouble with that? Let me see it." 

Mitchell was still scowling when he relinquished the bottle over to him, and pouted as he watched Jonathan so skillfully tear the seal off using his teeth. "Ugh. I could have done that!"

Spitting the plastic onto the floor, Jonathan shoved the bottle back into Mitchell's hands and resumed his irritable, folded armed position. Perhaps with a hint of a sardonic smile this time. "Then why didn't you?" he asked. And then asked a more pressing question, one he was getting tired of wondering about. "Uhh.. what exactly do you intend to use that for, hmm?" 

He was answered with a smirk, as Mitchell screwed the cap back on the bottle and shook it thoroughly. Jonathan, in his state of arousal, could not ignore the similarity to certain sex acts in the motion of Mitchell's arm. And from the way he licked his lips and jutted his chin towards Jonathan as he did it, that allusion was clearly intentional. 

Jonathan opened his mouth to repeat his question, only to leave it hanging open as the front of his pants were tugged down by hurried fingers and his stiff cock sprang free from its cotton confines. Mitchell, whose thumb on his opposite hand had been poised to snap open the top of the ketchup bottle again, paused. And took in the sight before him.

Jonathan Crane had little to be proud of in many if not most areas of life, but his penis was a stark exception. To say he was well endowed would be an understatement. Even feeling it straining against him earlier had not prepared Mitchell fully for the sheer size of the man before him. His stunned expression gave way to an ear to ear grin. 

"Oh, Jonathan... oh, you are gifted, I see! Ketchup, I fear, might not be a fitting topping for a frank such as this!" 

Jonathan frowned, brows knitted. "A frank? Mitchell, you little weasel, you had best not- Oh..? ahhh....!" His words turned into meager, confused whines as his partner pulled his cock down towards him and squeezed a perfect curlicue of ketchup down the length of it. Jonathan shook his head, and despite knowing all along that this was where their little excursion had been headed, he asked, "Are you serious right now?" 

Mitchell licked briskly at a spot of ketchup on the corner of his thumb and narrowed his eyes in amusement. "Serious as ever, my friend.. Though if you don't like the ketchup, I can always get that mustard." 

"Ketchup is fine," Jonathan said, his voice deceivingly dull. "Now just hurry the fuck up already."

Mitchell huffed in offense, but lowered himself to his hands and knees between Jonathan's unsettlingly slender thighs, and began to stroke the underside of his dick with a delicate hand, pinching the ridge between his fingers and tracing the jut of a vein that appeared to pump harder at his touch. His lips and tongue met the head of Jonathan's cock and he sucked softly, testingly, eyes trained on his. Jonathan could have laughed at how tender he was being. He very nearly did. 

But Mitchell's tenderness didn't last long. After only a moment he was lapping at Jonathan's cock like a hungry animal, lowering his mouth further and further down around his girth with each bob of his head. Thick globs of ketchup curled like plowed snow around the corners of his lips. He paused only to lick messily at them and catch his breath before returning to the task before him. His free hand had slipped down into his own loose fitting pants and he was, as far as Jonathan could tell, doing his best to prep himself with his own fingers. 

Jonathan grunted quietly, his clawed hand cupping at the back of Mitchell's head, urging him to take even more of his manhood between his lips. "Mitch," he said, breath catching in his throat as his dick met the back of Mitchell's. "Mitchell, I don't think.. ahh.. that. ketchup is.. hm... a suitable substitute for.. lubricant." 

Mitchell chuckled around Jonathan's cock, the vibration in his throat drawing the softest groan from the older man. Without disrupting his own felatious rhythm, he wiped the excess ketchup from his fingers before reaching into the pocket of his shirt and presenting Jonathan with a small packet of lube. 

Taking it from him with a raised brow, Jonathan inspected the package distractedly for tears and an acceptable expiration date. "Where did.. mmf... you get this?" 

At last Mitchell came up for air, his dimpled cheeks coated in saliva and the smatterings of tomato-based spread. "Commissary," he answered, panting a bit. 

"They sell lube at the commissary now? Since when?"

"Infirmary got sick of treating hemorrhoids and rug burned dicks, is my guess." Mitchell laughed. He rubbed the mess off his cheeks with his palm, and sat up once again. Held his hand out for Jonathan to give him the packet back. "Unless you're gonna rip that open with your teeth too?"

Jonathan did exactly that. He squirted some of the clear gel- which was sufficiently warm from its previous home against Mitchell's chest- onto his fingers before handing the packet to his pouting cellmate. He rubbed it over himself and nodded to him with his chin. "Get yourself ready, huh? We've wasted enough time as it is." 

Ever the charmer.

Mitchell followed instruction and in only a few minutes' time he had relaxed and stretched his body enough, hopefully, to accommodate Jonathan. He wiggled and maneuvered one leg out of his pants in order to properly straddle him, casting the thin slipper which had fallen off his foot during his partial disrobing across the tiny room. No worries. He'd find it later. He settled his hands on either of Jonathan's bony shoulders and shuffled his knees in the small space the hard flour bags allowed him. And lowered down. 

Jonathan held the base of his cock in a fist, holding it steady for Mitchell to sit upon. And swallowed a barely audible rumble of pleasure as Mitchell rolled his hips, the firm bulge of his perineum pushing tauntingly at Jonathan's aching hard cock. As thrilling as the touch was, Jonathan was growing tired of the pace at which things were progressing. /Hurry up. Just hurry the fuck up,/ he thought to himself. Teasing was generally his kink but in the here and now he was far too wound up. And the clock was ticking. The guards would have noticed their absence by now. He drove home that point by rocking his own body upward, letting his head poke against the slickened ring of Mitchell's asshole. 

"No patience," Mitchell chastised gently, easing down onto him with a slight wince. He took the tip of Jonathan's cock with expected and not entirely unpleasurable resistance. And despite their current position, he couldn't help but joke. "No patience at all.. Guess that's why you're not a practicing doctor anym- ahh! Shit! Easy there, Crane!" 

Jonathan could have snapped the ignorant bastard's neck for the disrespect he was showing him then. And he was sure some of the other inmates and even guards would applaud him for it. But in that moment, pushing into his ass a little harder and faster than he'd been ready for was going to have to serve as a sufficient punishment. And the startled cry his discourtesy spurred from Mitchell was even enough to make him smile. 

Mitchell gazed down at him with parted lips and his shoulders hunched. He sucked in a breath, thighs trembling somewhat as he held his place over Jonathan. It would be a bumpy ride, surely. He knew what he was getting into. They both did. The older rogue's hands were rough on his bare hips, his pale grey eyes cold and calculating even beneath their fog of sexual arousal, and his cock -which was still only halfway into him now- threatened to split Mitchell at the seams. Jonathan was trouble a la carte and Mitchell was ravenous for it. A mischievous smile broke out across Mitchell's face. "God, man. There's no need to be so /salty./" His tight hole constricted then relaxed around the middle of Jonathan's cock as he drew himself up and then down again, lazily and shallowly fucking himself on him. "The staff are dealing with a mess out in the halls right now. We don't need to rush. Just /relish/ the moment." 

And for that, he was rewarded with a hard snap of Jonathan's pelvis, effectively stuffing the remainder of his cock up inside him. Mitchell practically yelped, hands clapping down onto Jonathan's shoulders as if his thin frame were handle bars on a frighteningly rickety carnival ride. His asshole tightened like a vice as his cheeks made contact with Jonathan's hips, his knees pushing into the stiff edge of their uncomfortable makeshift bed. He twisted his hands around the short sleeves of the other's man's shirt and stared down at him, mouth agape in a blend of shock and pain. And delight. 

Jonathan chuckled, squeezing his young conquest's waist between his broad hands. He rolled his hips, once, then twice, then again, punctuating his words as he warned him in a low, wolfish growl, "No. More. Puns." 

Mitchell threw his head back and all but mewled. His fingers pressing into the hard rise of Jonathan's collarbones. "Fine. Finefinefine! Just fuck me then. /Christ!/"

Jonathan, who was already doing just that and had made no plans on stopping, huffed loudly and continued his mean-spirited thrusting. Every push of his cock into the hot, silky slick depths of Mitchell's ass was greater than the last. That hole hugged him like a glove, pulled him in like a riptide before pushing him along on the withdraw. And with every minor move or rut or twitch, Mitchell made more and more of a racket. Moaning. Whimpering. Bleating. 

All attempts at discretion were out the window now, Jonathan knew. They were going to be heard, if they hadn't already, no matter how big of a distraction his partner had started outside. But to hell with it, he thought. He hadn't allowed his dick to be treated like a ball park hotdog not to get what he'd come here for. They would see this to the end. 

Mitchell leaned back, altering the angle between them and meeting Jonathan's gaze with wide, dazzled eyes. He managed to creak out a needy noise that from tone alone could be interpreted as a request, and peered down at his own thus far neglected cock where it wobbled half-erect in between them. Then back up at Jonathan, who smiled dryly and shook his head in disbelief at himself. Not that it would be the worst thing he'd ever indulged in. Certainly not even the messiest thing... Still, he'd be hanging his head in shame over the memory of this day for years to come. 

"Please," Mitchell managed, pouting as he bounced on Jonathan's cock. 

Jonathan turned his head and rolled his eyes, for maybe the five-hundredth time that afternoon, holding onto Mitchell's thigh for balance as he reached for the red bottle that had been abandoned on the floor by their legs. "I am," he grunted, snatching up the ketchup bottle and popping the top open with his thumb just as Mitchell had done earlier. "You might be sicker'n me, you know that?" 

"Now, Jonathan," Mitchell teased, slowing the rock of his hips to a more languid ebb and flow. "You know what they say: you'll catch more flies with honey than with vineg-" He bit his tongue, not daring to finish his sentence after the deathly glare that Jonathan shot him. 

"I can not believe I am fuckin' doing this," Jonathan lamented under his breath, shaking the bottle and squirting a hefty blob of ketchup onto Mitchell's member. It sprang almost instantly to life, fully hardening as its owner released a grateful moan. Jonathan gritted his teeth and in the spirit of reciprocation, he wrapped his fingers around the base of Mitchell's cock. 

The comedian all but melted at the touch, whimpering as Jonathan's gnarled hand stroked at him, slow and sweet at first but quickly picking up the pace. Jonathan swallowed thickly, and made no effort to hide his distaste at the slimy, slightly grainy texture of the ketchup as it oozed between his fingers. Still, he couldn't help the genuine swell of joy that the sight and sound of Mitchell's strange pleasure brought him. And not merely from the satisfaction of pleasing a sexual partner. No, this man was a psychologist's field day. Jonathan would have to take notes as soon as he returned to his cell. 

Mitchell's throat was beginning to grow hoarse from the ecstatic noises Jonathan was drawing from him. From the enormous cock still plunging into his ass, to the talented fist that pumped at him and slathered him in heavenly tomato paste, his every nerve ending was tingling. He tilted his pelvis, allowing Jonathan's cock to better hit his g-spot, as if using him to scratch some deep itch. The heat that welled in his lower belly began to bubble and he groaned loudly, clutching at the front of Jonathan's shirt as the rush of orgasm crashed over him. "'M c-cumming," he moaned, tossing back his head and turning his eyes to the pantry's low ceiling. 

Jonathan continued to jerk him off through his peak, thankful that the gruesome nature of his life's work had granted him a steel stomach. The bursts of semen that shot onto his belly (and his shirt, he'd later be dismayed to realize) and rolled down Mitchell's twitching length would have been a welcome image if it weren't for the way it mixed so horrifically with the ketchup. The two fluids blended and dripped over his knuckles and Mitchell's balls and clung in gobs to Jonathan's dark pubic hair. Tonight, for once, he would be cooperative with the staff about showering. 

As if hearing Jonathan's very thoughts, Mitchell made matters entirely worse. When the turbulence of his orgasm waned, he took Jonathan by the wrist and brought those sticky fingers to his lips, lapping the offending goo from them with the air of a showman. Jonathan tucked his chin into his chest and watched in abject horror, which was only exacerbated by Mitchell's insistence on following this display with a kiss. 

Jonathan had nowhere to go. There were shelves on either side of him and Mitchell was still riding his dick with ebullient fervor. His soft hand cradled the back of Jonathan's head so tenderly as he closed the gap between their mouths and kissed him. Deeply. Passionately. The briny sweetness of the ketchup and the bitter pungency of cum made a nauseating cocktail that Jonathan's sorry taste buds had no choice but to be subjected to. 

The Master of Fear had never felt so helpless as he did in this moment. /This/ was true terror. And as Mitchell rocked on top of him, Jonathan in his head was making pacts with gods and devils that if he survived this rotten kiss he would be a better man. Half baked promises of reform and retirement were clouded over by the quivering that overtook his lower half. And he groaned into those tacky lips, grasping frantically at Mitchell's waist, unable to stopper the rush of sensation that pulsed so suddenly in his balls. The walls of Mitchell's ass clenched around him, and Jonathan could only accept the tide of his own orgasm. 

Jonathan squeezed, choking the ketchup bottle he still clutched in his hand, causing it to erupt its contents all over the both of them. He broke his mouth free and leaned his head back, resting it against the chill concrete wall behind him as he yelled out a "Fuck!" 

His cellmate rode him faster now, his eyes bright as he looked down at Jonathan with lustful glee. "Oh, yes!" he shouted, thighs clapping wetly against Jonathan's with every fevered buck. "Ohhhh, cum good for me! Give me that southern... style... GRAVY!" 

\--

The fight between Dent and Karlo had escalated with unsurprising momentum. More and more inmates joined the fray, and it had taken just about every guard in the place to break it up. Drury Walker nearly suffocated when he got caught in what they thought was Karlo’s left leg. It was only after the brawlers were separated and everyone carried off to their own cells that the staff noticed two names were unaccounted for. Crane and Mayo...  
It wasn’t difficult to find them, however. All they had to do was follow the noises. And when the unfortunate guards opened the door to the pantry they were met with a sight they’d never forget. 

The Condiment King lifted his trembling body and let the now withering cock flop free of him, cum gushing thickly from his gaping hole before winking closed just in time for their audience to witness. Below him, the Scarecrow was panting, a sick blend of nausea and satisfaction on his gaunt face. Ketchup was everywhere. 

Jonathan looked at the guards, brow beaded in sweat and eyes barely slits in his post fuck haze, and all he could do was smirk. 

All in all, it was worth losing his kitchen privileges over.


End file.
